Sin and Incivility
by Pastiche Pen
Summary: Bella Swan deals with heartache in her own uncivilized way. Lemons galore - and the writing style intentionally switches between gritty pulp and fairytale pretty. Just don't say I didn't warn ya. All-human.
1. Chx1

_Disclaimer_: While Stephenie Meyer would never have written this—these are still her characters (sort of)—and Twilight is hers. Disclaimer over.

**If you're not old enough to buy adult material, don't read this.**

**So, **this first chapter is intentionally **shocking** - I think it's hysterical (just so you know) but this is an EdwardxBella story, - just so we're clear. And this first chapter is not _essential_, but it's important. The next chapter is sweet, however, so feel free to skip it if my African violet planter comments make your eyes pop out of your head.

A super-duper special thanks to mischief-maker1 for her feedback on this and encouraging me to turn the dirtiness into a story.

So, my inspiration for the writing style in this chapter came from 50's post war pulp, cuz I like the grittiness and I find it a nice change from romantic fluffy bullshit (even if the old stuff was sexist as fuck). So, dirty, dirty, sour lemon below. It's a Bella-James lemon. Yes—I know. And more to come.

* * *

_x-x-x_

Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go it's one of the best.

—Woody Allen

_x-x-x_

James is an ugly motherfucker.

He is the manifestation of ugly, and yet, he is very tall.

My first confession: tall men turn me on. It's like standing in downtown New York City on a clear day at lunchtime only to look up and see the skyscrapers going up and up and up. It's intimidating and bloody beautiful. Well, you see, tall men do that to me as well. I look up, and I get turned on and on and on...

So you'd think I'd be turned on by James.

I am.

He is a tall motherfucker—like six foot four and that is nothing to scoff at, but there is another factor to consider.

He has a large chin, large in the way that it makes his face look like the plane of a shovel. It is ugly.

My second confession: large chins scare me. I mentioned the shovel. A large chin makes a man look permanently hungry. Large chins scream out: dirty, sadistic, cunt-munching serial killer at your service—the kind of S&M psycho who could chow out your girlies and then bury the pieces in your African violet planter when you're not looking.

That shit is scary.

So let's get a few things straight. James is ugly. James is tall. James has a huge chin. James is scary.

But the man is a master of the orgasm.

He fucks well.

Fucking an ugly man is awesome.

Because you cannot have sex with a man you find truly ugly.

You have to fuh-uh-uh-uh-ck them.

So I keep doing it.

And it scares me, but I kinda like that, too.

_x-x-x_

I go over to James's studio. It's an old building with an elevator that still has an extra brass gate to throw open, so you have to run out quickly because the door will slam on your heel if you're not careful, and I'm clumsy and not fast, so this has happened on three separate occasions. I walk down the painted and repainted art deco hallway, bordered at the ends by defunct radiators and barred windows. I knock on the paneled door. I politely cross my arms and wait like I'm coming over for tea and crumpets or something equally banal and depressing.

James opens the door wearing a goddamn apron.

Last time it was a beret.

He holds the door open, one arm crossed across his chest and an intent look in his eyes. He silently motions for me to enter.

When the door is closed, he spins to face me. His arms lie languid at his sides.

"Tell me about your day," he commands. There's an air of drama to his words. I can tell that he's thought this one out.

"Well, I filed a report..."

He waits patiently.

"Rosalie Hale of all people showed up at our meeting."

He touches four fingers to the side of my torso, like he would if he were aligning his fingers on guitar strings. His other hand rubs the slightly pinkened flesh on his large chin unthinkingly.

Good boy, he just shaved.

"Is that so now? Ice bitch deigned to grace you with her presence. I imagine the permafrost is still melting."

He pulls his fingers gently forward and then he cups my breast. I close my eyes and grit my teeth at the contact of his fingers over the fabric of my collared shirt.

"You think she's hot."

He presses his thumb into my nipple and begins rubbing geometrically perfect circles. He smirks arrogantly.

"I have a cock."

I give him a level stare in return. I continue on nonchalantly, as if his hands on my body mean nothing. "My report was well-received, even Carlisle liked it."

He pulls me upwards and bites my neck. Then he slowly raises his head, letting the bottom edge of his teeth catch on my chin, my bottom lip, and the tip of my nose. He has nice, even teeth.

"Carlisle wants to fuck you."

James thinks that I'm in love with Carlisle. I'm not. I'm in love with someone else, but that's neither here nor there, and this is not the time to dwell. I'm not thinking about green eyes right now. I'm getting my fuck fix, and then I'm going home.

I hold my tongue out and James takes the bait, flattening his tongue against mine before greedily sucking it into his mouth.

I jerk my face away from James, but I smile pleasantly. "Carlisle is happily married, and you have no idea what you're talking about," I explain in a mocking, almost babying tone. "Everyone was happy with the financials. I simply made sure that the business plan sounded persuasive."

He, meanwhile, shoves his hand up my skirt. He starts scratching at my thin pantyhose on my inner thigh.

"Bella, talk to me about the _exciting_ financials. Tell me the numbers, Bella baby."

His scratching rips a small hole in the hose. He pokes a finger through, and begins to rip a line upwards.

I can barely stand straight, but I manage to croak out, "Profits are up two percent."

The hole in my hose is now wide enough, and he pushes his whole hand through. I gasp as I feel his whole hand kneading the bare flesh of my thigh.

"EBITDA needs to be reassessed." Another croaked sentence.

"Say it again Bella," James demands coolly.

I become conscious of the fact that I'm losing my lady fluids like I've got a garden hose between my thighs.

"Say what?" My head is swimming.

I feel the excess starting to run down my thigh, and my body clenches in anticipation.

"E-BIT-DA," he says it rhythmically.

His hand stops when he feels the moisture against his hand, but then he methodically follows the trail upwards and snags his fingers under my panties and wiggles his fingers in the pond.

"Fuck, EEEEBITDAAAH" I spit out. I continue, breathing heavily.

"Bella, baby, keep going." He likes it when I start speaking incoherently.

Meanwhile, his fingers keep on a'going.

I start mumbling on about meaningless crap that had nothing to do with today's report. "Loan rates are up 1.25% and the company needs to consider a—alternative—lender."

James yanks my panties and pantyhose down.

"Sit down." He commands. He's done with the financial chatter, apparently.

I sit my bare bottom down on his off-white, cracked linoleum floor.

He kneels in front of me, pressing both thumbs into the thin fabric bunched at the bottom creases of my breasts, and pushes me back onto the floor.

I can feel grit and dust on the tiles.

"James, you need to sweep your ratty ass floor."

"But Bella, my little fuck monkey, I was planning on mopping it up later," he retorts.

Fuck me, I just got wetter. I bite my lip.

He assesses my face carefully before reaching and pulling my bottom lip away from my teeth. He shoves his finger into my mouth. I can taste myself on his finger tips, something else, too, spicy. I wonder if he had nachos for lunch.

I bite his finger.

He gives me a hard look. He shoves the other hand into my hole.

Another "fuck" and my head rolls back, and I involuntarily let his finger go.

He holds it up to examine it. There is a line of red teeth marks. Apparently, I bite hard.

His fingers pick up the pace and he thrusts them in and out of me.

"Fuck. Shit. Motherfucker. Shit. Shit. Shit."

He clamps his free hand over my cursing mouth. "You see why I had to wear the apron, Bella? You're being so dirty."

I nod, moaning through his fingers.

"I'm going to have to clean you up."

He waggles his tongue and then flicks it against my chin.

He leans down, and he presses the very edge of his tongue to the very edge of my clit, and I moan and shout and curse, and he starts dabbing his tongue against my clit to the same rhythm that his fingers are fucking my hole, and I'm grabbing and pulling at my own hair and my chest is heaving with my constant gasping and moaning and cursing.

He stops moving his fingers.

He raises his head and stares at me expectantly, smiling like he's about to tell the punch line of a dumb joke.

"Won't you come for me, Bella?"

I gape at him.

"I would if you'd keep going, you fucker."

I grab his hair and try to pull him back against me, but he easily throws my hands aside and grabs my ass, yanking me towards him, while he pushes his legs out in front of him and pulls me forward. He sets me on his face.

And then his hands are grasping my ass and pushing me up and lowering me down as his tongue shoots in and out of me.

"God, James, thank you," I gasp.

He gives my ass a slap to let me know he's accepted my thanks.

It doesn't take long at this point. James can feel the onslaught of female rapture, and so he slides his tongue up from my hole and takes a long, angry suck on my clit.

I scream.

And I scream.

And I scream.

There's a reason why James doesn't talk to his neighbors.

Between the chin, the extreme tallness, and the screaming, he cuts a pretty creepy figure.

He shoves me off of him. I don't care. I lay dazedly sprawled on his dirty linoleum.

He lifts the bottom part of his apron and wipes me off his face. He grabs both of my feet and starts pulling me across his studio.

"Kitchen?" I ask breathlessly, straining to keep my head from bumping on the floor.

"Second reason for the apron."

He stops dragging me when we reach the tiny little closet that he calls his kitchen, and he scoops me up, lifting me onto the edge of piss-yellow Formica countertop. He raises his apron and pulls the tie on his pants. They fall to the floor.

He's standing in front of me in some crap t-shirt and a checkered apron. On most men this would look a bit camp, but James pulls it off. He has extremely masculine legs. He's a big guy, a bit thick, but I'll take that over chicken stick legs any day, and I'm also grateful that he doesn't have a gut, especially since he's a bartender.

I grab a hold of the apron, yank it up, and observe that he's long and ready for me.

He doesn't fuck around, and he's already planned ahead. He snatches a condom out from behind the toaster, rolls it on, and pushes inside of me.

He rasps a gritty, "Fuck," and I say "Fuhh..." and he's already slamming into me. He's already made me come, so he doesn't pay an ounce of attention to me.

This also turns me on.

I'm going to make the most of it, though. I push up on my arms so that the angle is good, and he's pounding my clit in his haste, and I come again almost immediately. My teeth clench, and my walls clench, and I see his face clench.

He really is ugly.

James grunts. He comes like a bear, grabbing up my arms and throwing bites along my collar bone.

He gives a final sigh and pulls out of me.

His rolls off the condom and chucks it in the trash. He grabs a paper towel, wipes himself off, and quickly washes his hands.

He looks up at me, "Sounds like work was okay."

"It was."

"Be back tomorrow?"

"Sure."

I grab my purse out of the living room. I don't remember putting it there. I grab my panties and the remnants of my pantyhose off the floor. I toss my panties in my purse. I toss the pantyhose on top of an overstuffed trash bin. I slide on my flats and let myself out.

I'm going home. I'm going to make myself dinner. There's a new novel that's captured my interest. I'm going to read it until sleep takes me. I'm going to sleep, and tonight, I hope, I won't dream about green eyes.

I laugh at my own madness.

As if one could tame one's own dreams.

What dreams may come, indeed.

_x-x-x_

* * *

So there are seven chapters to this one (probably an epilogue, too). And you might guess from the title, that it contains major plot elements of a certain classic novel by Jane Austen—except that the chapters are as follows: lemon, fluff, lemon, limey-ness, lemon, actual plot, lemon. Eh, yeah, I kinda, sorta outdid myself on the screwing (but I couldn't help it... it's all _tormented_ and **angry**).

_x-x-x_


	2. Chx2

Disclaimer: Edward and Bella belong to Stephenie Meyer—as do all things of The Twilight.

Author's Note: Actual plot starts. Fluff. Fluff. Fluff. No lemon—just the honey, but I hope you all still like it...

* * *

"It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others."

—Jane Austen, _Sense and Sensibility_

x-x-x

I'd never really understood the phrase, "I met someone."

Because, really, I never had.

I never had experienced that cosmic alignment or instant flash of chemistry to which so many bubblegum romance novels attest. I didn't believe in it. Relationships, I preached, were the product of hard work, mutual attraction, understanding, and commitment.

If you "met someone," that simply meant you had a nice conversation about common interests with a person you'd also like make babies with. Better yet, maybe your senses of humor aligned unexpectedly. That sort of thing.

Everything else was bullshit.

You see, I had a relationship with an understanding, attractive, and loving man.

I had a fiancée. My best friend.

And I dropped him.

I dropped everything.

Because _I met someone_.

I met him.

And the stars fucking realigned.

x-x-x

I spent my breaks from work in this old, musty, and absolutely wonderful bookshop, Norland's Bibliophilia. It was the sort of bookshop that sold old and new books, but it was impossible to find the bestsellers unless the owner took you on a rambling expedition through the maple maze of shelves. The shelves stretched to the vaulted ceilings, on which random bursts of art appeared, especially in the shop's many domes. The further back you went into the store, the more eccentric the layout became—with strange alcoves containing even stranger groupings of books.

I spent most of my time in the "Classic and Orthodox Illicit Love" section as the placard listed it. "Porn and the Unborn" had its own large alcove.

The owner, a frizzled-haired spinster who told me to call her Missy, would come and visit me in the "C.O.I.L." as I browsed and re-browsed through the columns of old and semi-old friends.

"Jane Eyre today, is it?" she'd note, peering down through her spectacles. "You know _Wide Sargasso Sea_ is the new take on that one, Isabella?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, Missy. I read it."

"Righteous stuff that one," she'd acknowledge, setting her square spectacles back on her nose, and then continue meandering down the aisle, our conversation finished for the day.

So, it delighted me to no end when I saw Missy furtively sneaking down the aisle one afternoon, her hands holding up the edge of her sequined skirt to keep her steps as free and silent as possible.

I whispered over to her, deliciously amused. "Missy, what's up?"

She started, turning over to see me. "Ah, Isabella, well, I…" She actually looked a bit embarrassed. "I'm spying," she confessed.

"You're spying?" I asked, with my eyebrows raised. It was her bookshop after all, why would she need to _spy_?

She pressed her hand over her mouth and gave a squeaky giggle. "Ooh, yes! But I am."

Her eyes sparkled and she gave me a wily look. "Come on, dearest Isabella, darling, you shall accompany me. For one such as this, it would be inexcusable not to share," she cackled. Her hand caught mine in hers, and she led me down the aisles.

I knew this section of the store pretty well. So, when she led me to end of an aisle, I knew we would be near the poetry alcove.

Missy didn't say anything, but she pointed.

She pointed to a mop of bronze hair, a rumpled collared shirt, a pile of tossed poetry books, and a pair of green eyes.

At first, when I looked, none of these individual elements seemed to fit together. It was like I was staring at the individual colors so intently that I couldn't make out the rainbow. While my body continued to function—my eyes widened, my lips parted, my breath stole away—my brain seemed unable to reason out that the green eyes flitting in horizontal lines were actually reading the beaten old poetry leaflet. I couldn't connect that the bronze locks belonged to the long fingers that raked through it. I didn't believe the facial features could come together and form the face that they formed, or that the body below could connect in such a way that it did.

He was too beautiful.

Missy couldn't take the situation anymore, either, apparently. She was ringing her fingers and bouncing up on her heels. The woman had to be at least sixty, but she was acting as giddy as a sixteen year-old girl. She gave a final squeak and turned on her heel and fled down the aisle.

The green eyes glanced up.

I flicked my eyes away, making my body move in such a way that seemed like I'd always been there—just browsing, of course. I decided the best way to cover the mishap was to be bold. I entered the poetry alcove and reached for a familiar copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. I flipped through the pages, pausing occasionally to pretend and read a page or two, even though I didn't read a single line. I was counting the seconds until it would be acceptable to turn and flee.

When I set the book back on the shelf and turned to walk out of the alcove, I fell apart all over again.

His head lay back, pressed against the bookshelf behind him. Both hands were meshed in his hair. His eyes were closed, and on his cheek, leaving a silver trail, was an unmistakable tear.

I found myself advancing forward, stopping, kneeling down, pressing my thumb to his cheek, and brushing the tear aside.

I almost brought the tear to my lips, but I stopped myself.

Because he was looking at me.

"Are you alright?" I whispered.

He didn't frown or smile or play coy. He reached up and brushed his hand along my cheekbone, mimicking the stroke that my hands had drawn across his own cheek.

"You're not sad, but you're lost."

My lips parted. My eyes fluttered. The instant his hand touched my skin, I felt a pulse—a flash—a current of something deep, and I felt a bit dizzy. I took a breath. I needed to swim above the vertigo.

I didn't know what to say to his assessment because it was true, so I said something else.

"Why are you crying?"

He drew back a little, examining me as if trying to deduce some great secret, but then his eyes cleared, and an uncertain smile sneaked onto his face. "Well, Wendy, darling, I seemed to have lost my shadow."

I snorted and then slapped my hand over my mouth. I took a deep breath and spoke slowly, "Well, I'll have to sow it back on, young Peter," I replied, shaking my head at him. "In fact…" I gave him a very devious smile, "I'm quite skilled with a needle and thread. But I say, it seems I'm missing my thimble."

"Be careful, there are fairies that steal away thimbles," he said with a fake solemnity.

"But they bring fairy dust," I returned.

"And one needs the fairy dust to go to Never-Never-Land," he finished, pausing and breaking away from my gaze.

"Is that why you're sad?" I asked, "You never want to grow up?"

He belted a laugh, squeezing his eyes shut, as he shook with laughter.

I watched him curiously, fascinated and enthralled by his strange beauty and even stranger behavior.

"I'm afraid I grew up too fast," he explained when his laughter became controlled.

"Ah, I see."

"Do you?" he asked, a pained intensity to his voice.

"Well, my mother always told me I was born thirty-five, and just grew older every year."

He smiled at me, and his hand reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Would you tell me your name?" he asked.

"Bella."

"_Beautiful_," her murmured. "It fits."

I blushed.

"And that flush of pink is even more breathtaking."

"What's your name?" I asked, trying to control the pell-mell fluttering of my heart.

He smiled, "I'll let you figure it out."

"That's not fair. I told you mine."

"My name is one of the main characters in that stack that you're holding."

"Which book?"

"The top one."

It was _Sense and Sensibility_.

"Well, certainly not Willoughby," I muttered. "And you don't seem like a Brandon…" It clicked and I smiled at him.

"You're not Edward are you?"

"Edward, I am."

"You know, Edward in the book is a bit boring."

"Do you think I'm boring?"

I flushed again, "No, I think you're anything but boring." I stared down at my hands.

I heard him suck in a breath, and I felt him pull me to him, holding me against his side. My entire body liquefied as the current between us seemed to rake me up and down.

"Is this okay?" he whispered.

"It feels right," I answered.

"Tell me," he pleaded. "Do you feel this?" He ran his hand along my jaw, and then picked up my hand and brought my fingers up to his face.

He felt it, too. The jolt. The current. The sense of electricity.

I nodded, my breathing absolutely erratic as our eyes became chained.

He pressed his face to mine, I felt his lips lightly feather along my temple.

I gasped.

He buried his head in my hair and drew in long breaths.

I held perfectly still, fearing in some strange way that if I made a sudden movement, this moment would disappear, and he'd go flying out the window to chase down a distant star.

He pulled his head back and stared intently into my eyes.

I could feel his breath, piping hot and fragrant on my lips.

We both moved forward at the same time, our lips drawing near at the same time.

But then he broke away.

"I can't."

I froze.

I felt fractured.

I tried to pull my face away, but he stopped me.

"Bella, it's just that I have an obligation."

I felt a cramp clutch my chest. I had an obligation, too. I had Jacob, and yet I was here. I was here and wanting to kiss Edward, to touch Edward, to make love to Edward.

And that was not fair.

So, I realized I had an obligation, too, and I nodded, looking into his eyes again.

"I want to see you again. It's just—I don't want us to be burdened by anything."

I nodded again. I brought my fingers up to sketch the angles his face. "When?" I pleaded, tracing his jaw.

"Tomorrow morning. Can I see you here tomorrow morning?" he implored.

"I want that."

He pulled me to him, then, and he gently lifted up the bottom of my shirt and pressed his hand tenderly against my lower abdomen, holding it there. Meanwhile, he fluttered kisses on my nose, my cheeks, and my eyes. He paused when he reached my forehead and pressed his lips firmly, intensely, and passionately against me.

When he ended the kiss, he pulled away but leaned down and his eyes bore into mine.

"This should be permanent," he whispered, and then he stood up.

With a final word, "tomorrow" and a finger brush on my lips, he strode out the alcove and down the aisle.

I collapsed. I lay on the floor of the poetry alcove, my mind seeming to detach from my body as I became overwhelmed with an almost child-like sense of wonder, and a very adult sense of longing. My brain charged ahead, chartering new fictions and painting brilliant, bright-edged landscapes, while all the while, I was trashing my former, now desiccated logic that happy-ever- after was bullshit.

It was real.

And he'd found me.

I picked up my treasured copy of _Sense and Sensibility. _A new emotion overtook me, and I laughed, giddily squeezing the novel against my bosom and pressing my lips against the precious cover.

I bought the book, and I left the store.

x-x-x


	3. Chx3

_Disclaimer:_ I waste my time on this. I don't make money off of this. SM has that right to make the money I mean... Yep.

Eh, so I'm posting a day earlier than I planned, but this is probably my favorite chapter, at least from my own writing pov. Hopefully, it will answer a lot of the questions that keep popping up. Also, yet another thanks to mischief-maker1, who pretty much beta-ed this for me. I **_heart_** you mischief-maker1. ;-)

So, yeah lemon below. Adults only... you know this, even if you are one of the underaged mites who still reads it to spite me.

* * *

x-x-x

"And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

—Friedrich Nietzsche

x-x-x

x-x-x

I'd often wondered what hell would be like.

I was never particularly religious. Spirituality held a certain appeal, but the practice of dogma and ritual threw me off completely. In spite of all of this, I had a sense of the god-fearing. I prayed every time my airplane landed. I sang a wish for heaven for every tear I shed at my grandmother's funeral. When my mother and I would drive through the desert, I'd look out of the window and see the vast expanse, the jagged edges, and the cerulean sky a color so divine, and I'd think about a supreme sculptor dragging his fingers through the earth and molding the landscape into this strange sea of broken glass and arid emptiness.

I rarely thought about hell.

A friend told me once that the simplest definition of hell was existence without God, without love.

At the time, I can't say I really understood.

But now I do.

Hell is hurting the people you love.

It's staring into the eyes of your best friend of ten years and telling him you don't want him anymore. Yes, you love him, but it's simply not enough, because you aren't in love with him. It's giving him back his ring.

Hell is loss.

It's the shock—the deception of trust—and dreams and hopes severed on rocks. It's walking into the office Christmas party to hear the tinkling of silver against crystal. It's looking up to the front of the room and hearing the words, "May I present my son's beautiful fiancée!" from the lips of your esteemed boss. It's looking at another woman and knowing that you've been fooled, and that in a thousand, ten-thousand, no—million years of existence—there is not a breath in which you will ever be able to compare to her.

Hell is staring at green eyes and knowing you've been betrayed—even as you begin to doubt that you ever had the right to feel that way.

Even worse, hell is taking the train to work every single day, and seeing green eyes next to perfect blue eyes and knowing that you don't belong.

So let me make myself clear:

I know hell.

x-x-x

I sit at the hotel bar—still wearing my lace cocktail attire from the party. I have an odd sense of being in the fish bowl here. I've always wondered about those girls who sit alone, obviously lonely, at bars. I wondered what their story was. I wondered why they didn't choose among the many loners and settle on a companion. Why would anyone want to sit alone?

I guess I never thought they were missing someone who wasn't there.

There is a guy hitting on me in the chair next to me. He isn't bad looking, being olive-skinned and angular. He's unfortunately short, though, and I don't dig that.

I start to notice, though, when his hand rests on my leg, and he picks up a strand of hair from my shoulder.

"Sorry," I mutter as I brush his hand off and scoot my chair away.

"No reason to apologize, girlie. I was just trying to get your attention. You really haven't said a word, and I've been talking for like five minutes."

I stare up at him, eyebrow raised.

"And I'm not good at taking a hint, right?" he laughs and then leans forward across the bar. "I'm getting you a drink."

The bartender walks up. He looks mostly bored, but when he sees me, he eyes me curiously.

"Jack," I mutter, and he nods and goes to get the drink.

"Bad day, eh?" Mr.-Doesn't-Take-a-Hint inquires.

"Uh-huh."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Uh-uh."

"This two syllable thing is working out really well for the both of us."

"Sorry."

"Once again, two syllables."

I don't say anything. The bartender drops the glass of Jack on the table. I drain it down.

Mr.-Doesn't-Take-A-Hint looks on approvingly and then asks, "Well, do you want to get drunk enough to do something about it?"

He puts his hand on my leg.

I stare up at him.

"You're the best looking piece of pussy I've seen in weeks."

I think my mouth just fell open.

"Am I not being clear enough? I want to fuck you senseless."

I am starting to realize how drunk this man is. I didn't see it before, but as I stare at his eyes, I see that they're bloodshot and unfocused. I start to pull away, but he squeezes my leg harder.

I'm saved when the bartended grabs him by the scruff of the neck.

The bartender is huge, like really, really, really tall. Big chin, too.

After a few snarled words, the bartender sends Mr.-I-Really-Fucking-Don't-Take-A-Hint out the door with his tail between his drunk-ass legs.

"Drinks are on the house," the bartender states, looking at me expectantly.

"Thank you," I say, staring unfocusedly up at the goliath of a man.

"I'll make you something special," he mutters, before turning to grab some bottles.

x-x-x

An hour later and I'm pretty well drunk off my ass. I only realize that the bar is closing when James—the bartender—picks me up off the floor, where I have fallen at some point, and lifts me onto the bar.

"You hold your liqueur like an eight year old," he scolds.

"I wish I was eight," I agree, nodding wistfully.

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do," I spit back, crossing my arms and pouting.

He is eyeing me with amusement now. "Actually, I agree, maybe you do. But you shouldn't. You're a fucking grown woman—capable of taking care of herself—you shouldn't be acting this way, and from what I can tell, you normally don't."

"I very much hate being a woman today," I whimper, and I can feel the tears pooling in my eyes.

He sighs and presses his hand to his forehead. "Let me guess, some dumb fuck stomped on your heart?"

I look up at him through tear-filled eyes, and rasp a "yes," and then I lay my head, sobbing, down on the table.

"Oh, god, stop that."

He pats me on top of the head. "Stop that."

I just shake my head and stay buried in my arms on the bar.

"Look. At. Me," James orders. He lifts my chin up and brings my eyes to his, clearly annoyed.

"You'll be over it tomorrow once you've sobered up. A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love," he quotes with big lecturing eyes.

OH, fuck no. I break into hysterical laughter.

"You did not just quote Nietzsche to me."

"I did," he snaps.

I wrinkle my nose at him. He shakes his head.

"Or maybe I should have given you beer goggles earlier so that you would have taken up that ass wipe's offer. You could use a good lay."

I stick out my tongue at him, and then I sigh. "The last thing I need is more empty sex."

"I'm not saying you need empty sex, I'm saying you need a few screaming orgasms."

I frown, and I look up at him thoughtfully. He is very ugly man, but he's quite tall. He's sort of scary, but he's very entertaining to talk to.

I decide to confide in him.

I lean forward, and I hook my finger, indicating that I have a secret to tell him. He rolls his eyes and leans over so that I can tell him. I press my lips up against his ear and I confess.

"I've never ever had an orgasm," I whisper loudly in total drunken seriousness.

He stares at me. He bunches his fingers in a fist, and he looks like he wants to hit something.

"Lay the fuck down," he commands.

"What?!" My eyes pop. I'm still sober enough to know that this is a very bad situation.

"I said lay the fuck down."

"I told the jerk-off before that I wasn't going to fuck him! Why the bloody fuck should I fuck you?!"

"I'm not going to fuck you. I'm going to make you come."

I stare at him, my mouth is hanging open.

He waits.

I lay down.

The bar is long but I'm on the end of it and my legs are hanging off of the side.

James walks in front of me. He leans over me and rests on his elbows so that his considerable weight is not placed on my comparably tiny body.

The first thing James does is bite my ear—softly but, I feel a twinge of pain—just a hint of danger.

I fucking like it.

A moan escapes, and we haven't even really started.

His hands start their assault on my body. One of his hands slips under my lower back and lifts me up while the other circles the outline of my breast before cupping it completely through the lace of dress.

And he's nipping at my ear, throwing small bites along my jaw and licking long lines down my neck.

"Bella, you're going to soak your panties at least twice before I let you go home. Is that acceptable?"

I nod weakly.

And then James unzips my dress, and I pull off his shirt. He's so different from Jacob, even though they're both so tall. Jacob is dark and defined and his torso slopes down elegantly from his broad shoulders. James is even broader, more powerful, and thicker. But Jacob was also always too gentle. He treated me like a porcelain doll. It did nothing for me. I never came.

James rips my bra off.

And then his mouth is on my breasts and his fingers slide under the lining of my underwear—a lacy pink thong—and the thought flies through me that I was a different person when I chose them earlier this evening, but then, the thought is gone as soon as it arrives, because James is sliding the lace down my leg, and I'm naked and bare, and this hulk of a man is making me feel things I've never felt before.

His lips return to my ears while he lifts both of my hands.

"Bella, you're going to touch yourself here." He puts my left hand on my breast. "And here." He pulls my other hand by my index finger until it's touching the tingly spot at the intersection of my legs.

"Now rub circles, Bella."

A breath of air whistles out of my chest as my own movements catch me by surprise.

"Good job, Bella baby," he praises me, but then he tosses my hand aside.

James shoves his head between my legs.

I give an unexpected squeal and my legs clamp around his head, but he keeps going. I realize I've sat up slightly, my back jerking into an arch, but I relax my muscles and stretch back onto the bar.

And I let James do his thing.

Because it feels amazing.

And because it's never happened to me before.

And I can feel tingles and jolts and zings zooming up, around, and through my body, and I'm drunk and totally blissed-out, and the bad, evil world has had the closet door slammed in its face, and I'm dumbly happy to enjoy my seven minutes of heaven.

James increases his movements and grabs my ass and pulls me harder against him, and I start to moan even louder.

Prior to this, I'd believed I was just one of those "quiet people." Not everyone needs to scream, right?

I let out a long piercing wail.

My toes are twitching, and I'm grinding my teeth, and my eyes can't shut any tighter.

I come.

And I wail.

I realize that James is trying to control his laughter while he's also trying to cover my wailing mouth.

I shut up, but I'm still breathing heavily.

"Bella, you are the loudest little bitch I have ever dealt with," James breathes staring down at me.

I smile at him.

He laughs again.

"Bella, I know I said I wasn't going to fuck you, but I thought I should let you know…" He grabs my hand and presses it against the long bulge in his jeans.

I start unbuckling his pants.

"I'm going to put you against the wall, do you want that?"

I shake my head vigorously. I finish unbuckling and unbuttoning, and then I pull him out.

Did I mention I like tall men?

James pulls me to the edge of the countertop. He snatches a condom out of his back pocket, rolls it on, and then places himself at my entrance, and I think he intended to take this more slowly, but I scoot myself forward, and he slides directly into me.

The smile is gone from his face, and his eyes are closed, and I can tell he's gritting his teeth.

"Fuck me, James."

And he does.

He slams me against the wall, easily holding me, while pushing measured strokes into me.

"Bella, touch yourself like I told you," he rasps.

I do at first, but then I'm far more preoccupied by the fact that he's groaning and grunting and I'm moaning and cursing. I'm sucking on the spot below his Adam's apple, and his head is buried in my hair, and he's pushing and pounding, and the wall is echoing the booms of our fucking, and I'm slightly afraid that if I don't keep my head bent forward, it's going to get walloped by the wall, which could lead to a concussion—which is normal—but I'm drunk and alcohol makes concussions worse. But then James starts running his tongue along my neck, and I grab his hair, and he squeezes my ass so much that it starts to hurt.

And I start to come again—just like he promised.

I dig my nails into his broad back, and he pinches my ass.

And I'm squealing again because I'm coming and my body is shaking from head to toe.

And then James comes, too.

He just stands there for a minute, pressing me against the wall.

But then he softens his grip on me, and we both slide down, breathing heavily.

He presses me against his chest again, and in a strangely quiet voice asks, "So, Bella, did that help?"

I look up at him. I lean forward, and I kiss him, sweetly.

He pulls away from me.

"Bella, that won't help."

And he's right because it feels cold.

"Bella, I want to be honest with you, so I will be."

I nod.

"Normally, I just fuck and chuck, but honestly, I'd like you to go home with me."

I stare down at my hands. I think the phrase "fuck and chuck" just made me blush, which is funny given that I just took a wayward frolic in kinky-coital-rampage-land.

"I'm not sure."

He kisses the top of my head. "That's fine. Stand up. I'll get you zipped."

x-x-x

Five minutes later and we're walking to the front of the hotel. James has a hand on my ass and the other is holding my fingers in his mouth. He's made a game out of trying to get me to come home with him.

I'm laughing because I'm still drunk, and frankly, I'm still floating on a double-orgasm high.

I'm not really paying attention and almost fall down the steps as we make our way to the front door. James catches me and throws open the door, and I'm still giggling when I hear my name called.

I come to a grinding halt.

Carlisle Cullen—my boss—is holding open the door for his wife as she climbs into a shiny Mercedes. Standing on the other side of the car is Edward.

Edward Cullen.

I just learned the last name earlier this evening. I already knew his fiancée's pretty little name.

Carlisle is the one calling "hello."

"Bella! How are you? Nice evening, isn't it?"

James has no idea what is going on, but he takes his hand off my ass.

I give Carlisle a feeble smile and an even weaker wave.

Edward stares at me with haunted eyes, but then he opens the door and slides into the car.

I watch in pain as the car drives away.

I realize James is holding me so that I don't fall.

I turn towards him and open my mouth to speak, but he answers before I can ask.

"You're going home with me tonight, aren't you?"

I shake my head. "Yes."

"Let's go then."

He scoops me up, and we go to his place.

x-x-x

I didn't go to the bookstore the next morning. I mentioned something to Missy, so I know that Edward didn't either.

But the next evening I did go over to James's.

Maybe paradise was lost, but at least I have a temporary release from hell.

Because everywhere else, I'm in hell.

At night, I dream, and I'm in hell. I try to read my old books, but I think of the one buried at the bottom of my closet, and I'm in hell. At work, I pass the new corner office at the end of my hall, and I'm in hell.

I see green eyes everywhere, and everywhere I'm in hell.

x-x-x

x-x-x


	4. Chx4

_Disclaimer:_ Twilight belongs to others--notably Stephenie Meyer and Little & Brown.

_Chapter Notes: Emmett comes out to play. As does another odd bird--or yippy red thing, __I should amend_. Some introductory limeyness, but no lemons. We'll call this one a pear. This chapter hits all the notes. I think it might even be funny, lemme know...

* * *

x-x-x

Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest:

Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers:

Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest,

And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!

—William S. Gilbert

x-x-x

x-x-x

After a while you doubt that the miracle ever existed.

You expect it to fade away, like the faces of so many forgotten strangers.

But then he's always there.

In the conference room.

In the hallway.

In the elevator.

His hand interlocked with hers.

It burns, so you try to play it cool. You try to relive the plot line of that erotic vampire slasher novel from the night before. You try to go down your mental checklist for the day. You finally hit the mark when you remember the image of James in the Princess Jasmine tiara from the week before—and that works so well, it makes you laugh, escaping the tomb for a moment.

But then you trip, falling flat on your face in front of him.

He looks down.

He could have caught you, but he didn't.

A punch by a hand ringed with dazzling jewels.

A caress turned into a slap.

It bleeds. It burns.

You still want it.

x-x-x

Fucking James must seem like an unhealthy thing.

It's not.

Except when it is.

Like when he brings Pookie home one day in early February. I call her Pookie, because she has untamed, flame-red hair, a button nose, and an energy level that serves to annoy the shit out me.

I meet Pookie because I knock on James's door, and she answers, wearing James's shirt. I notice that she's even tinier than I am, so James's t-shirt looks like it's going to eat her at any second.

My mouth falls open, and I prepare to back away, but Pookie grabs my hand and pulls me into James's apartment. Odd. It looks like it's been cleaned. Pookie pulls me forward, hopping and squeaking elatedly, and I see James curled up naked on his bed with some dead philosopher's manifesto in his lap.

"Look who's here, Jamsey-Whamsey!" she proclaims.

I expect James to be pissed at the dumb-ass nickname, especially since its coming from the lips of a shuttlecock with legs, but he, actually, oh, god, he actually looks like he's amused. I realize he's enjoying the expression on my face. I really suck at hiding my thoughts—especially with the whole blushing thing, but I try to rearrange my features and raise an eyebrow at him.

"Bella, this is Victoria."

Victoria hops up and down to show me that Victoria—make no mistake about it—is her name.

I'm sticking with Pookie.

"James, you were right—she's so pretty!" More hopping. And then Pookie pushes me on the bed and starts braiding my hair.

I turn to James and frown.

He shrugs his shoulders and returns his eyes to reading his dusty tome.

Pookie is whistling while she braids my hair.

"Bella, Victoria was hoping you wouldn't mind that she was here," James tells me, not looking up.

Pookie pulls my head into her lap and smiles like a four year-old right above me.

"Uh, I don't know, James. I wouldn't want to…"

"Oh, Bella, please don't go!" she whines, thumping her fists on either side of her.

"Eh, and why should I stay?"

Pookie swings her leg around, and she straddles me.

I stare up at her, and she grins back.

I flick my glance over at James, and he's shaking with silent laughter.

I'm about to yell at him, but then Pookie licks me.

She licks my lips and then my eyelids.

I'm kind of, sort of horrified.

But then she's grinding her hips into me, and I'm freaking out because that's turning me on too.

I think about throwing her off of me, but I'm pretty sure she'd hop back on and go in for some girl wrestling. I'm also pretty sure James wouldn't pull her off.

She's littler than me, but I'm not sure I can take her.

So, when she leans down to kiss me, I let her, and we continue like that for several minutes. I'm actually kissing her back, and it is one of those fuck-me-odd sensations because I have only ever been with two guys at least twice my size and now teeny Pookie is here making dessert of my lips and grinding into my hips with ceaseless energy.

And I'm getting into it.

At some point, James comes over and pulls Pookie off of me, and surprisingly, she lets him, but then James starts taking off my clothes, and I almost stop him, but this experience is so utterly psychedelic that I let him continue—because I'm two hundred percent positive that the pondering required to sort out my mental status after this event may be sufficient to distract me for several hours, if not several days.

Pookie hops back on me as soon I'm naked, already having discarded the over-sized shirt, and then she's sitting on my lap and I'm gasping at the softness of our breasts touching and she's sucking on my lips and then her fingers are between my legs, and James's hands are on my hips and…

The world goes bottom-up.

x-x-x

I have to rush back to my apartment the next morning.

I'm late getting into the office, and once I sit down at my desk, my secretary informs me that I'm late for one our company's "strategic action meetings."

This means everyone looks up when I enter the conference room.

Everyone includes a set of fine green eyes.

"Sorry, I'm late," I mutter, sliding into my chair and stirring my cup of Joe.

"It's all right, Bella," Carlisle assures me. "You've never been late before, and well, there's a first time for everything."

I snort a laugh, and I have to grab a napkin because I think coffee is dripping out of my nose.

Everyone is staring at me—that includes Edward.

Emmett Cullen—or the "other brother," as he is referred to—is sitting next to me, and he's clearly happy for the interruption. Emmett typically uses meetings as a way to up his Space Invaders score on his Blackberry.

"So, Bella, could you give us a breakdown of the recent bond strategy?" Carlisle requests.

I smile, pick up my notes, and deliver my report.

I know I've done well, because Carlisle attacks me with questions afterwards, and when he's done, everyone else peppers me for details—everyone except for Edward. Edward almost never speaks directly to me.

And I wish he would, but I also wish he wouldn't, because when he attacks a problem, it's like he's thought it through completely, and his comments are thoughtful and candid and strike to the heart of the matter, and I love listening to him, but it makes me feel silly about the comparative inelegance of my own rhetoric.

But then, if he spoke directly to me, I could look at him without seeming to stare.

When the meeting is over, my co-workers clear out. Edward leaves the room immediately, but I notice after a minute that Emmett Cullen is still sitting in his chair next to me.

"Hey, Bella Swan girl."

I don't look up from my papers. I think I ordered them incorrectly because one of the pages is missing. "Hi, Emmett Cullen boy," I answer.

He laughs.

"You know, you're on a frickin' role today?"

"Oh, I am, am I?" I find the first page, but then I realize that I've lost the second page.

"So, what's up with that?"

I stop fussing with my paper, and I glance up at Emmett.

"What's up with what?"

"What's up with you smiling for the first time in like three months?"

"It's been a rough couple of months, Emmett. You know that I broke up with my fiancée."

"Was that the dude at the annual party?"

I snort—again. "No, it was not, and second, how did you know about that?"

"Edward told me."

I purse my lips.

Emmett doesn't seem to notice. "So who was the dude at the party?"

"My friend."

"Is he still your friend?"

"Yes, he's my friend." I start chewing on my bottom lip.

"But he's not your boyfriend?"

I laugh, shaking my head, 'no.'

Emmett looks at me confusedly. "So what is he then?"

I almost say "my favorite fuck toy," but I stop myself, this is _work_ after all. I resort to aligning my stack of pages, and I answer truthfully, "James is my therapy."

"He's your therapist?" Emmett asks incredulously.

"No. He's my therapy."

"Isn't he a bartender?"

"Aren't most bartenders shrinks in disguise?"

Emmett nods his head at my words.

"So, why were you smiling this morning?"

"Oh, just a weird evening."

"Bella, you're driving me nuts—you never actually say anything."

"Well, why do you keep asking?"

"Because I want to take you out to lunch."

I finally really look up at Emmett. This is sort of out of the blue. I mean, I've always liked Emmett. He's a fun guy to work with, and I recognize that he's good-looking and that I should be flattered or something, but Emmett and I never had a "spark." He is the big boss's other, if somewhat less intellectual, son—and oh, yeah, then there's the thing where I'm in love with his brother.

"I don't know, Emmett, wouldn't that violate some policy?"

"It's just lunch, Bella."

"How about you stop by my desk around lunchtime, and we'll see if I'm free. Since I failed the punctuality test this morning, I have no idea what's on my plate today."

"Cool," Emmett agrees.

x-x-x

Emmett plops down in one of the chairs in front of my desk at exactly 12:30. When I don't immediately pay attention to him, he puts both legs on my desk and crosses them, so that they're all of six inches from my face.

I hold up my pencil and jab it at his shoes.

He laughs and then puts his feet back on the floor. He stands up and walks around to my side of the desk.

I continue to scribble notes down on a page. I'm racing to get a project done, and I really just need to get a few more details.

Emmett starts shaking my chair, swishing it back and forth. My already bad penmanship looks atrocious as my pen barely stays on the paper.

I stand up, and I tisk and shake my finger at him.

Emmett throws my coat over my head.

"I talked to Carlisle. He said he doesn't need the chart until 3:00 PM at the earliest."

"Fine," I huff, pulling on my coat and grabbing my purse. I march out the door in front of him.

x-x-x

I expect Emmett to take me out for a sandwich somewhere—so I'm surprised when he escorts me into a French restaurant that I've passed a hundred times but never been to, because I always considered it too pricey to even consider.

We sit down, and Emmett tells me, "They have good steak."

I laugh.

He _would_ come here for the steak.

I've barely have a chance to gaze through the menu, when I hear the voice I hate most in the world.

"Emmett, why are you here?"

I look up to see sky-eyed Rosalie Hell—I mean, _Hale_. Standing next to her is Edward.

I jerk my focus back to my menu. I always avoid speaking to Ice Bitch if I can, and staring at Edward is bad for my broken heart.

"I'm not sure if you noticed, Rose, but I'm having lunch with Bella. We like to eat food, and this is one of those cool places called a restaurant where they have food and bring it to you, and you can eat it and talk to other people," he informs her in a mocking tone.

And then I hear another voice and my head shoots up and my heart falls to the floor.

"What the hell, Bella?"

Jacob Black has shouldered past an astounded Edward Cullen and is standing in front of me.

"Hello, Jake," I greet quietly.

"I've been trying to call you for months." He's tugging his tie loose, and I almost smile because I know how much he hates wearing one.

"I haven't really been answering my phone."

"Oh, really, Bella? I didn't notice," he snaps. Jake puts both hands on the table, and leans toward me, inches from my face, "We need to talk, Bella."

"And just who are _you_?" Ice Bitch demands from my former fiancée.

Jake turns up to look at Rosalie. He stares at her incredulously and then turns back to me, ignoring her completely.

I sort of want to burst into applause.

Hale-Bitch looks like she wants to slap Jacob.

Jake continues, "You are not avoiding me anymore. I'm picking you up for dinner tonight. We're going to talk."

"I don't know, Jake…"

Jake reaches into his pocket and yanks out the ring that sat on my finger for over a year. "Bella, you can't throw this back in my face after ten years and then pretend we have nothing to talk about."

You could hear a pin drop in the restaurant.

I close my eyes, and I feel the tears beginning to leak out of the corner of my eyelids.

_God, he still carries my ring around in his pocket._

I whisper through my tears, "Fine, we'll have dinner, Jake."

"_Finally_," he mutters, obviously relieved. "I'm picking you up at seven."

He kisses the bridge of my nose, and even though the touch of affection is swift, there's only tenderness in the way his lips brush against my skin. With a final glare at Emmett, Rosalie, and last but not least, Edward, Jake stalks away from the table.

Emmett reaches across the table and no joke, pats me on the head.

Rosalie looks like she wants to commit murder—my murder in fact. I'm pretty sure it's considered a crime in her book to take the limelight away from the glorious Rosalie Hell, and I notice Edward—Edward has the strangest expression on his face.

I fall back against my seat in the booth, and use my napkin to wipe the tears away.

Emmett grabs the attention of a passing waiter. "We need a double shot of Hennessy, right here, for the lady."

I laugh through my tears.

Rosalie turns to Emmett, "Well, we'll be leaving you to your lunch, then."

"Oh, cut the crap, Rose. There's plenty of room." Emmett grabs her by the arm and pulls her into the seat next to him.

Is my mind playing tricks on me, or did I just see Ice Bitch crack a smile?

The only seat open then is…

"May I?" Edward is speaking directly to me. He's pointing to the seat beside me.

I don't look up, but I nod.

I think about saying a prayer of divine thanks when the drink arrives. I drink half of it in a single gulp. It burns as it flows down my throat, and when I set my glass down, the room seems to contract slightly, but this is good because ungluing my peripheral vision from Edward is now possible.

Thankfully, I haven't needed to speak yet. Edward hasn't either. Rosalie and Emmett have yet to cease bickering. It's almost entertaining to watch. Rosalie criticizes some small, perceived flaw of Emmett's, and then Emmett mocks Rosalie's alleged perfection. I'm trying not to laugh at Emmett's barbs more than Rosalie's, but Emmett is just so damn _spot-on_.

I'm also keenly aware of the fact that I'm still madly in love with the supernatural being sitting less than a few inches from me. It's getting to be too much, so I whip out my phone and begin texting.

"Who're ya calling, Bells?" Emmett breaks away from arguing with Rosalie.

"I have to rearrange my plans for tonight."

"And who is getting the axe this time?"

I frown and don't answer, so Emmett reaches across the table and snatches my phone from me.

"Tell Pookie I'm sorry and not to bite me." He reads aloud.

"Who's Pookie?"

"She's small and yippy."

"I didn't know you had a dog, Bella."

"I don't. She's with my friend."

"Oh," Emmett mutters and shrugs his shoulders.

Rosalie is twisting her ice blond hair in bored circles around her finger. "So, spit it out, Bella, why'd you dump that guy?"

I consider leaping across the table and bashing her skull in.

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Oh, don't tease us, Bella. He said you'd known each other for ten years."

Why of all times does Rosalie Hell choose this one to take an interest in a life other than her own?

When I don't answer, Rosalie presses on. "Is it because of that guy from the engagement party a few months back? I heard about that." She winks at me, like we're great girlfriends or something, and I really, really want to gouge her eyes out.

Emmett interrupts, "The bartender is her friend—not her boyfriend." He announces it like he's giving a book report at school.

I roll my eyes, but I'm smirking.

"Therapy, right Bella?" He points to the glass of Hennessey in front of me.

Not funny. I frown at him.

Rosalie is apparently not done with her exercise in girl bonding. "Bella, we have to head out for a happy hour tomorrow after work, wouldn't that be nice?"

My whole body clenches when I feel a warm, slightly balmy hand grip my knee under the table.

And as quickly as it is there, it is gone again.

It takes a minute before I can speak again. Rosalie's looking at me like she's worried that I'm constipated or something.

"How about we play it by ear and go from there?" I offer weakly.

Emmett is looking from me to Edward, and there's a rascally gleam in his eyes like he's figured something out.

"That's acceptable, Bella," Rosalie agrees, smiling for so ridiculously long that I wonder if she's hoping that I'll count her teeth for her.

Then, Emmett throws a jab at Rosalie, and the two of them resort to their bickering.

I order a salad, but I barely eat. Everything tastes like cardboard.

Before I know it, everyone is standing and rising out of their seats. I pick up my glass and down the second of half of the cognac.

We start to head back together, but then my head starts to swim and I sway. A strong pair of arms catches me. I look up and see Edward.

But then I see nothing.

x-x-x

I wake up in my apartment. My coat and shoes are off, and I'm lying on my bed with a throw stretched across my legs.

I roll off the bed and wander into the living room, plopping onto the couch. I lay down on the couch, but then, from the kitchen, I hear soft singing. My heart aches because the sound is so sweet, but I'm a little confused because I didn't know that Emmett could carry a tune.

And the song dances through the room like lilac and honey.

When Edward rounds the corner, I fall back down onto the couch.

I hear him rush to my side.

"Are you alright?"

And my eyes pop again, because the irony of those words is not lost on me.

Edward sees my face, and I can tell that he's just figured it out. "You passed out," he explains, apprehensive.

"Oh, the double shot. I shouldn't have drunk that."

"Well, I'm sure the stress of being accosted in the middle of the restaurant didn't help."

_Or maybe the fact that you were sitting next to me for an entire hour?_

But I also think of Jacob, and I shake my head, "I deserve much worse from Jacob."

"No, Bella, you don't."

I laugh somewhat hysterically. "Oh, but I do. I never really even explained…"

Edward wrings his hands.

I realize this is the first time we've been alone together since the bookshop.

"Bella, I…"

"Don't say anything, Edward."

He looks down at the floor, and he whispers, "I'm sorry."

We just look at each other.

I know I'm about to cry, so I pull the cover over my head and hide.

"Bella?" Edward croaks, a high edge to his voice.

I say nothing. I'm trying to nix the tears spilling down my cheeks.

"Please don't hide, Bella."

And then my cover is peeled away and his green eyes are boring into mine, and he's brushing the tears off of my cheeks.

And then he leans down and kisses my forehead just like he did in the bookstore.

I gasp because I feel the jolt all over again.

I look up as he pulls away, expecting to find green eyes, but Edward keeps his eyes shut, even as he stands up and turns his back to me.

"I hope you have a nice evening with Jacob," he says in a low and ragged tone.

I am unable to speak.

He picks his coat off the wall rack, shrugs it on, and walks out my front door.

He doesn't look back.

I flee to my bedroom and throw myself on my bed, and I sob.

But then I sit up, because something is different.

I had started to clean my closet on Wednesday. I started, but didn't finish. I had left a sizable heap in the middle of my bedroom floor.

And now the book—that book—is sitting open on my desk.

I didn't open it.

I start sobbing again because I'm confused.

And my heart gets ripped open all over again.

And nothing seems to make sense.

And because I'm still burning.

x-x-x


	5. Chx5

_Disclaimer:_ Twilight ain't mine, I'm just playin' for chrisakes.

**AN:** Two updates in a weekend, I'm spoiling y'all.

Emotional f*ckwatage below. You were warned. Once again, Adult content, hence the M, even if you don't listen to me.

And for those of you who read N&W (in which I actually try to be funny), there's another chapter coming along sometimes today. So, heads up.

* * *

x-x-x

"The only difference between friends and lovers is about four minutes."

— Scott Roeben

x-x-x

x-x-x

Most people have lives that fall into an order: a job, a family, and some friends. A web of key persons connects you to the rest of the world. These relationships are what ground and bind us to one and another.

In my case, the strings were sliced.

Ripped and shredded and trampled upon.

I had shaken the web and then escaped, flying off into the twilight.

My father refused to forgive me until I "came to my senses."

My mother was put out about the wedding being cancelled—invitations returned, balances lost on the catering and hotel reservations. It didn't matter that I had handled almost everything. She had wanted to wear her new dress.

My mother, the mistress of immaturity at the age of fifty—she accused _me_ of being flighty.

I hung up on her.

And then there was he:

Jacob.

I had flipped the switch on the sun to gaze at a star.

But no star.

No sun.

Nothing but dark. A night as black as pitch.

And the only web that held me was my own.

x-x-x

x-x-x

I'm woken up by a knocking on the door.

I open the door, and Jacob is standing in front of me.

He cocks his head to the side and peers at my face.

"You don't really look dressed to go out, Bells," he assesses.

I look down. I'm wearing exactly what I wore to the office today, except I'm now sans shoes and socks. I realize that my hair is probably a mess, and my eyes feel quite puffy—but that's what you get when you cry yourself to sleep.

"Sorry, Jake. I fell asleep."

He gives me a gentle smile. "Nah, it's no problem. I was thinking about asking you if we could just order in, anyway. Really, I'm just happy to see you," and with that he pulls me close to him, and I let him because honestly, I could probably use about a thousand really good hugs right now, and Jake always gave the best hugs.

I smile up at him. "Chinese?" I offer.

"Sounds good."

"General Tao's?"

"You know it."

I walk down the hall to grab the phone, and Jake follows me into my living room.

"It all looks the same," he mutters.

"And what should it look like?" I ask pulling out the menu to dial.

"I don't know, Bells. I guess I thought something would be different."

"I'm different."

"You know I really don't believe that."

I draw in a deep breath. Of course, he doesn't want to believe that, but then again, how could he not? I haven't told him anything. I shake my head and pick up the phone to dial my preferred hole-in-the-wall Chinese venue. I place the order, and they promise forty-five minutes, even though they almost always show up in twenty.

I plop down on the couch, and Jake scoots next to me and reaches down and pulls my feet into his lap.

I'm about to protest, but he picks up my foot and starts rubbing the base of my heel, and I instantly relax—which is what Jake intended anyway.

He doesn't look up, but he asks, "The job is still eating you alive, isn't it?"

I shrug. "It's not too bad. Carlisle gives me interesting work."

He shakes his head. He doesn't believe me.

"How's being the newbie at the firm?" I ask him.

"It sucks shit, Bella. It's empty, meaningless work."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "I thought being at the firm was what you wanted."

"You were what I wanted."

_Fuck. It's already starting._

I pull my foot out of his hands, and I stand up. "I'm going to make us some tea," I say and head into the kitchen.

Jake shakes his head, and he crosses his arms, muttering to himself.

x-x-x

I have the water in the pot, and the burner heating on the stove, when I feel Jake's presence behind me.

"Do you want something besides tea?" I ask, not turning.

Jake grabs my hips, and he turns me.

"Yep, I think I do."

He kisses me. He pushes me against the counter, and he kisses me—hard. It's a desperate, angry, _what-the-fuck_ kiss, and his hands grip my hair and my waist, and he's holding me against him, and I realize I'm already crying. Not because I'm afraid—but because the kiss is like the boom of a bass note when all I was expecting was a Middle C, and because I finally realize the full extent of the damage—how much I've hurt him—sweet, happy, gentle Jake—he would never have been this way in a normal world, and I have driven him to this.

But that doesn't mean I don't enjoy it.

And that makes me cry more too.

But I'm kissing him back, and he's pressing me harder against him.

He pushes me up onto the counter, and a cutting board clatters to the floor along with a jar of spoons, and it's like a brass band is in full swing on the floor below. Some unknown utensil is uncomfortably pressed into my leg, but I'm ignoring the pain because I recognize that both Jake and I need this—words don't seem to be working, but his hands on my ass and his lips on my neck and my thighs squeezed around his waist seem to appease a primal form of logic.

When I start to pull on the buttons at the top of his shirt, Jake pulls away from me.

His eyes look damned.

"Bella, how the fuck do you not love me?" His hand is holding my chin up so I can't turn away.

"Jake, I've always loved you." The words tumble out and my jaw quivers.

He lets go of my chin and flings his hands in the air, before turning back to me.

"I don't know what it is, Bella—I don't know. I haven't figured it out. You did love me. We were happy, and then you up and walk out the fucking door like it meant nothing!" he yells, and now we're both crying.

He grabs my shoulders, and he's trembling, and I am almost afraid he's going to start shaking me, but then there's a knock on the door.

Chinese.

I open the front door to greet the delivery man.

I set the boxes down on the coffee table, while Jacob stands in the doorway, long arms crossed.

I sit down. "You need to eat something, Jake."

I open the box of General Tao's, and put it on a plate, before opening another carton trying to hunt out the carton of rice.

Jake pushes my hands away and pins me back against the couch.

I realize that this is not my Jacob.

This is a different one.

He moves to kiss me again.

I smack him.

"Eat your goddamn food, Jake," I bark at him.

He stares at me.

I stare back.

And it's there.

We both burst out laughing at the same time.

"Eat your goddamn food, Jake," he mimics in his fake Bella voice, before reaching over to ruffle my hair.

I poke him with my chopsticks. He smiles in return, before snatching a fortune cookie from the paper bag and propping his long legs up on the coffee table. He rips open the plastic wrapper and slips out the fortune. He pops the entire thing into his mouth, and I hear the crackle of the papery cookie being crunched. He only takes a glimpse at his fortune before tossing it up and letting it float down onto the table.

"What was your fortune?" I ask curiously.

"Your colon will self-destruct in six seconds," he mutters wryly, still crunching.

I groan. "Very funny, Jake. Let me see."

I pluck up the slip of paper.

"It's blank," I murmur as I flip over both sides of the slip.

"Not true. I got lotto numbers," Jake sasses back with a smile.

"That's weird. I've never seen that happen before."

"Shit happens. Probably, they were trying to save on ink, I mean look at the proportion of breading to actual chicken. Though, dang, maybe it even means I have a blank slate."

"That'd be nice," I murmur, eyes unfocused.

"Bells, come here," Jacob whispers urgently, and his arms are wide open and beckoning me.

And I crawl into his lap, because I can tell that my Jacob is back.

He kisses me sweetly, and I kiss him back even more sweetly. Our lips are soft and gentle, and my hands are kneading through his hair, while his are trailing across my collar bone and down my arms and rememorizing the shape of my breasts.

He starts whispering softly into my ear—soft promises of love and yearning and the future.

It scares the shit out of me.

So I bite his lips. I bite them hard, because I want him to stop taking us down that path.

He growls and pushes me back.

His mouth opens like wants to say something, but I clamp my hand over it and bite his neck and grind my hips into his.

He groans and pulls me flesh against him.

I try to push him down on the couch, but he pushes back, and we crash onto the floor.

I'm on bottom, and his full weight is on me.

"Shit, Bella, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I—"

"Fuck me, Jake."

Jake blinks at me.

"Seriously, Jake, I need you to fuck me."

I slide my fingers up under the bottom of his shirt and pull it up his chest. He pushes up on one arm and pulls it off the rest of the way. As he's lifted, I begin hastily unbuttoning my shirt. I have half the buttons undone from the top, when Jake yanks the shirt off my shoulders, so that it's caught halfway down my waist and hindering the movement of my arms.

I'm wearing a black bra.

He pulls down the straps, and I shrug my arms out, and both my shirt and bra are draped at my waist while Jake makes sharp, small bites up my stomach and nips at my pink tips, and his fingers scratch along my shoulders.

And I realize that once again, this is not my Jacob.

I slide out from underneath of him, and I stand, unzipping the side of my skirt, and pushing both it and my top and bra down my body.

Jake stands, too, and he begins unbuckling his pants. Once he's done, I slide his boxers down, and he pushes my black bikini bottoms down.

I kick the fabric off my feet, and then we're both standing naked, and Jake has a single hand under my chin.

I sit and lie back on the carpet.

He's so, so, so tall, and russet-colored and hot.

Like he's always been.

He kneels down above me.

"Bella, you're beautiful."

"Jake, I told you to fuck me."

"Sure. Sure. Geez, don't be so bitchy, Bella."

He leans forward, and I scoot down and wrap my legs around his waist, and push down on my elbows and pull up with my thighs, and I rub my wetness against him, and he curses and then groans, and then he pushes us both down to the floor, and readjusts and slides into me.

He moves in even beats.

But it's like I can't feel him. I feel his abdomen sliding with mine and the muscles in his arms flexing as he keeps the angle, but I don't feel him.

I smack his ass.

"Flip us."

"You're being a bit of a pushy little bitch, Bella."

I smack a peck on his mouth.

He rolls his eyes, and then he rolls us, being sure to keep us interlocked.

And then I'm on top.

And I go nuts.

I'm touching myself as I slide up and down on him, my eyes rolling back into my head, and loud moans flying from my mouth. My other hand is raking a row of red stripes down his defined stomach muscles. I noticed that they seem even more defined than the last time I saw them. Jake hisses at the pain, but then he knocks my hand away from my clit and takes over the task.

"Put your hands above your head," he begs.

I do, but my balance is off, and I almost fall, but Jake catches my side, and holds me steady, and he's staring at my face and my uplifted breasts as my hips move up and down on him.

I'm becoming more and more dazed and as I slip in and out above him, and I want my release, so I start pounding, and my body shakes harder and harder, and I can't keep my arms up straight anymore so they're crossed and resting on top of my head, and then I see that Jake is no longer staring up at me, but his head has fallen back and his eyes are squeezed shut, and he's mindlessly chewing on his lips.

I pull his Jake's hand away from my nub and put his palm on my ass, and Jake takes over our vertical movements, slamming me down and thrusting me back up, and my right index finger is moving in furious circles on my clit. I've been whimpering all along, but now I start screaming out curses, my head falls forward, and my hips press down hard on Jake, grinding in tight circles.

I come, and I'm warm and wet and loose.

When Jake flips me back over and finishes by pounding into me from above, I'm molded against him and kissing and licking his neck softly.

He collapses on top of me, and we lie there, breathing heavily for God knows how long.

Eventually he sits up, and he pulls me into his lap. I snuggle close against him.

"So," Jake states, just letting the word hang.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"So who have you been fucking?"

I raise my hand to slap him, but he catches it.

"You were fucking faking before, weren't you?" he accuses, and his voice sounds hurt more than angry.

"If you recall, I never made much noise," I hiss back, but it comes with a choke at the end.

"But you told me that was 'just you,'" he mocks, and now there's more anger.

"In some ways, it was." My voice sounds feeble, even to me.

Jake's jaw is set, but then he exhales a long breath. "Okay, so apparently we had some things to work on, but whoever the hell you've been fucking, Bella, he may have taught you a few things, but he hasn't made you happy. I can tell that you're not happy."

He holds my gaze, and the anger is gone, and the remainder is only my Jacob.

It's too much—the honesty, the hurt, and the love, so I turn and look out the window to think. I realize that if I wanted to, I could try and make things work with Jacob. I love him, and he loves me—and he's right: I wouldn't be sad with him. Our kisses wouldn't be cold, communication would help with the sex, and we would have pretty babies and a low-rate mortgage and nice vacations in the sunshine.

But there would always be the fact that I wasn't in love with him.

I know myself well enough to know that being in love with Jacob is not something I can grow into or simply ignore the absence of.

And I realize that I don't want that for him.

Because I love him more than myself.

I turn back to him, but it looks like my epiphany has already been deciphered. Jake was always the best at reading me—and I'm not that difficult to read.

"Just please tell me you're not fucking some dickwad who's the object of your 'unrequited love,'" he snaps the last two words with an eye roll and a grimace, because there's nothing he's ever hated more than my attachment to my old novels.

"No—it's not that," I sigh.

"But it's something like that," he grumbles.

I chew on my bottom lip, and Jake strokes my hair, though he's not looking at me. He's looking out the window.

When he kisses my forehead, I look up.

"Chinese is getting cold, Bells."

We eat.

We watch a movie.

He kisses me goodbye.

I can tell that it's a real one.

And my best friend walks out my door.

x-x-x

* * *

- So, yeah...

I'll put the prologue up for the next one on the forums per usual by Monday, and the next two (and final chaps) will be up by next weekend, and yep, reviews do encourage speedy posting.

So review!


	6. Chx6

_Disclaimer:_ At this point, you all are very aware that Stephenie Meyer would never have written anything like this...

**AN:**

I know I said I'd make the lot of you wait, but I'm not sure it's healthy for me to screw around with this chapter anymore, and I sorta love it. Like I swiggle (a very technical word) in my chair every time I read it, and I keep re-reading it.

Now, are you all ready? No fluff or fruit. The only chapter of pure, 100% plot!

Dun-dee-deh-Dun!

* * *

x-x-x

It is because of men that women dislike one another.

—Jean de La Bruyère, _Characters_

x-x-x

x-x-x

I dress for work the next day like I'm preparing to meet my mortal enemy in battle.

Because I am.

I'm not stupid, and I know that if Carlisle's golden-haired daughter-to-be requests my attendance at her post-work version of a bacchanalian interrogation session, I have no choice but to go.

I put my (evil) heels in my purse. I have flats to get me there and back. I squeeze into a steel grey dress, which is probably too short for work, so I throw a small "office-professional" jacket over it. I actually wear eye-makeup. I only poke myself with the pencil once.

I stand in front of the mirror and take a deep breath.

I stare.

And then I laugh—and there's defeat in every decibel.

She is Venus. Aphrodite. A goddess.

I am the most pathetic of mortals.

And only a hubris-charged fool challenges the gods.

x-x-x

When I arrive at work, Emmett Cullen is sitting on my desk.

He whistles as he checks me out.

I frown at him. "Emmett, I should file a sexual harassment claim against you."

"Oh, Bella Swan girl, please do, but just wait at least ten minutes 'til I've had a chance to properly commit the crime," he sings with an overstated leer.

I throw my purse at him.

Emmett catches it and laughs, but he doesn't stop checking out my legs. "You're getting breakfast with me. Right about now sounds good, doesn't it?"

"No. I already have a coffee date this morning, and it's not with you."

"Who are you having coffee with?"

I sit down in my desk chair. "None of your damn business."

Emmett rubs his chin. "Did you make-up with Jake?"

"Is that why you're here—to pry?" I snap.

"Yep—and because I want to feed you caffeinated beverages so that you'll like me more," Emmett states, nodding his head in mock earnestness.

I groan and clap my hand over my forehead, before carefully leveling out my voice. "I know this makes me worthy of a mental institution, Emmett, but I actually do like you—in that companionable, co-worker sort of way. _Now get the fuck off my desk_."

"So, you _are_ going with Jake," Emmett concludes. He is grinning hugely, like he just won some sort of contest.

"No, I'm not meeting Jake," and my voice sounds weaker when I rasp Jake's name.

Emmett's smile falls off of his face, and he leans over to pat me on the shoulder. "Do I need to take you out for another double shot of Hennessy?"

I give him a smile and shake my head. "I think yesterday was more than enough for me."

_Too much._

"Well, fine, Bella Swan Girl. I'll leave you to your work, then."

He grabs both of my hands and squeezes them comfortingly before taking off.

_Okay, so maybe I like Emmett Cullen as an actual friend._

x-x-x

I meet James at the coffee shop just a few blocks away from the office. He's wearing a dark flannel button down, and his short hair is pushing up in all the wrong directions, and his eyelids are heavy and shadowed by dark circles—the effect is pretty menacing, overall.

"Pookie did this, didn't she?" I accuse as I sit down in front of him.

He pushes a coffee across the table to me.

"I'm not sure I want to talk about it," he responds.

But I noticed that he doesn't groan or grimace or say it in a negative way. He just says it.

"How'd you escape?"

"It turns out she actually has a job."

"Day care? Pet sitting? Olympic gymnastics training?"

"She's a defense attorney."

"Really?"

"Good one, too. She gets most of her clients off."

"In what way?"

"I'm not even going to respond to that forced attempt at humor," James grumbles.

"Who says it was forced?" I chide back.

"I may not have gotten any sleep, but despite the office sex-kitten look, I know for a fact that you didn't get any sleep, either."

"Jake came over," I mutter.

"So you said."

"It sucked."

"The sexing or the ex-ing?"

"The ex-ing."

"But you still screwed the balls off of ittle-widdle Jacob."

I rolled my eyes. "James, you can be so crude sometimes."

James smiles at me, and he looks like he's going to say something, but he closes his mouth, looking thoughtfully at my expression. After a real pause, he concludes, "Something's changed. You normally like my crudeness."

"Ice Bitch invited me out for cocktails after work."

"Do you really have to go?"

"Pretty much."

"So Jake didn't want you back?"

I sigh. He's not letting this go. "No, he wanted me back," I answer.

James wrinkles his brow. "Well, why didn't you go back with him?"

I stare at him.

He stares back, almost a bit bored. "Bella, you need some happiness," he presses.

"I thought you didn't believe in happiness," but as the words escape my mouth, I wonder if that's really true.

"You do, Bella. You and your Lifetime stories and all that shit."

"I don't watch TV."

"But I know you read a thousand books a week."

"Jake deserves someone who's in love with him."

James sits both elbows down on the table and squeezes the spot in between the eyebrows. "It's the guy from the first night, right? Carlisle?"

"No, it's not my _boss_," I retort.

"Let's piss off with the guessing games, Bella. You obviously need to talk about this away from the filters of fucking or drinking, so let me have it."

"I let you have it on an almost daily basis."

"Bella, you're denying and displacing," James mutters grumpily.

"Oh, so we're onto Freud now?"

"Freud had some things right."

"Like penis envy, right?"

James shrugs. "I think it's just as natural for women to have dick envy as it is for men to have clitoral multiple-orgasm envy. Although, let me tell you, I think that _womb envy_ is a bunch of bull—"

"—It's Carlisle's son."

James leaves asshole philosopher mode and eyes me tentatively. "Which one?" he asks.

"The one engaged to Ice Bitch."

"Certain things are starting to make sense. Now, how the fuck did that happen?"

"It's pathetic."

"Bella, it might be disappointing or "tragic" or some bull, but you shouldn't screw yourself out of living because of it."

"I am living."

James's cell rings. He heaves a sigh and reaches into his pocket and pulls out the phone. He barely has the phone pressed to his ear when his face tenses—he flushes slightly—and he drops his face beneath his arm, whispering rapidly into the receiver.

Another moment of silence.

"I'll call you back later, Victoria."

Pause.

"Yes, Bella is just fine."

James says goodbye, clicking off the phone, and then he turns back to me. "Well, you can guess who that was."

"What'd Pookie say to make you blush?"

"Victoria has a talent for shocking me."

I laugh, because he's embarrassed, and I've never, ever seen James embarrassed before—even with the tiara.

"It seems like many things have changed," I smile, but I also take a deep breath.

"Our sessions?" He asks, and his eyes are cool but not cold.

"I think I need to bow out."

I spent the entirety of last night making this decision. Jake made me realize about a thousand things, and that's why I called James early this morning, and that's why we're here.

James nods thoughtfully. He looks like he expected as much.

I'm not sure what to feel, and I have no idea what to expect. I don't feel sad, like I'd expect to feel after a break up, but I do feel slightly numb, because James is the person that I have spent the most time with outside of the office for the past couple of months, but our conversations have been limited to talking while fucking, talking about fucking, sparing intellectually, and chitchatting only occasionally.

"Please tell Pookie, dearest, that it's not her," I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

James smirks. "She'll understand. She's very concerned about you, you know?"

This time I have to try not to laugh, "Is she now?"

"Yes." He lifts up his coffee and holds it in the air, draining down the last of it.

"I think she's good for you." I pick up my coffee, and I swig mine down.

James shrugs—but there's a crinkle to his eyes that gives him away.

"Well, our door is always open," he says standing up.

And I smile because he said "our," and I bet he doesn't even realize it.

I give him a hug, and he hugs me back.

I'm still numb, but the hug is undeniably warm.

I watch James make his tall, ugly way to the exit, and I can't help but smile when I see him unable to keep from scowling at a baby carriage blocking the aisle. At last, I see him push out the front door of the café and disappear down the sidewalk.

I gasp when I hear the voice behind me.

"So—Pookie isn't a dog, is she?"

I whip around to gawk at the profile of Emmett Cullen.

His back is to mine, and he's wearing a massive woodcutter hat with fur flaps on the sides that almost completely covers his face. It's particularly comical since a rather posh black suit and deep red tie are visible underneath his winter coat.

"You followed me," I spit.

Emmett finally turns around to look me in the eyes. "I was interested—and might I say, what I heard was very _interesting_," Emmett intones conspiratorially.

I could not stop myself, I start to tremble. "Emmett, _please_, promise me that you won't say anything—to anyone," I plead.

"I won't," he says, and he speaks with complete and total earnestness.

My mouth drops open.

Emmett reaches out and closes it back up for me.

A smirk creeps across his face. "I have to say, though, I got a little hopeful when you said 'Carlisle's son,'—I thought I'd rolled the lucky number seven."

I stare back at him, lips pursed.

He smiles, but then he's serious again. "You know, you shouldn't give up on my brother."

I looked down at the floor. "It's not like there is anything to hold on to."

Emmett looks like he's about to say something, but he stops short.

"Things aren't always what they seem. Just don't let it go yet, okay, Bella?"

I look away.

I hear Emmett mutter under his breath, though I can't make out the words, and then his hand presses against my back. "Come on, Bella Swan girl. Let's get you back to the office."

x-x-x

Ice Bitch strides into my office at 5:36.

I try to look really busy.

It doesn't work.

She presses a perfectly manicured finger on the edge of my desk.

"Drop the pen, Bella. If you need to get work done, you can finish it up later."

I wonder… _if I light her on fire, will she melt?_

"Can I meet you downstairs in five?"

"No. You're coming now."

I begin to fear that she'll pluck my hairs out one at a time before dissecting my heart and locking the individual ventricles away in her meat freezer.

I rather like my hair, so I follow her.

Rosalie makes only small bits of conversation along the way to another restaurant I've never heard of.

We arrive. They seat us. Ice Bitch orders a glass of wine—and before I can speak, she orders me a Long Island ice tea. I gape at her, and she smiles back. She's not even trying to be subtle.

"What's with the 'tea'?" I hold up my fake quote fingers.

Ice Bitch makes the first dodge. "You had a date with your ex last night, I assumed you could use a stiff drink."

"I'm not sure that a mix of four or five liqueurs is the solution," I parry.

She gives me an evil smile.

_Bitch_.

The waiter brings both of our drinks.

She holds up her glass. She stares at me.

It's a fucking challenge.

But it's not.

Because I have a glass with a 40% alcohol content, and she has a glass with 12%.

Ice Bitch doesn't fight fair.

She takes a sip.

I stare back, and I take a sip. I have an empty stomach and a lot of stress and a low tolerance—so even though it tastes as harmless as Sunday sweet tea, it goes straight to the logic centers of my brain.

R. Hell looks proud of herself.

She starts mumbling on about crap things at the office—this is easy to ignore, and even as we have our unspoken boozing challenge taking place—her wine is disappearing pretty quickly. She almost seems nervous, and then she orders a second glass, so I feel that I'm maintaining my ground in this suck-ass situation.

But then she starts talking about Edward—about the extravagant wedding planning—and the honeymoon to Paris that she booked with the hoity-toity travel agent just yesterday. As a result, I'm no longer sipping, I'm sucking the juice out of my straw like I've been in the desert for days with no water, and this tea-colored liquid is the succulent nectar from a stumbled upon oasis.

Rosalie smiles. My head rolls to the side—whoops, a little too far—my neck stings a bit. I rub the spot. I notice that Rosalie looks sort of pretty when she smiles—her teeth glisten like a really shiny ice sculpture.

"So, Bella…" she trails on.

"Mmm, yes?" I can't help but notice how intricate the granules in the table are—it's always very nice when restaurants go with real wood instead of that plastic crap for tables. I wish the world wasn't so blindly impressed by everything synthetic and convenient.

"What's going on between you and Emmett?" Rose interrupts my internal droning.

I stare up at her. She looks a little desperate and sad.

"Nothing to worry about," I console her and pat her hand.

"Why did you two walk in this morning together?" she asks and the way she asks, it sounds like I've hurt her in some way.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "We didn't come in together," I assure her, and I sigh and frown up at the ceiling, because I didn't come in with anyone.

"I saw you two walking in together—around ten," she accuses.

"Oh, that. I went out to get coffee with a friend, but Emmett caught me."

I suddenly turn around to see if Emmett is hiding behind me. I lift up the cloth and check under the table.

He's not there.

Rose looks at me like I just finished sniffing glue.

"I think he's stalking me," I confide in a loud whisper.

Rosalie looks even sadder for some reason.

"What's the matter, Rosalie?" I ask, scooting my chair around the table so that I'm closer to her.

Her lips are on the edge of her wine glass, and her eyes are focused on nothing.

"Why are you sad?" I ask, putting my hand on her shoulder.

"I'm not."

Her voice sounds funny.

"I don't know why you'd be sad. You have Edward, after all."

I see Rosalie choke, and then she covers her face with her napkin.

"Edward doesn't want me," she mumbles through the cloth.

I frown at her, and then waggle my finger in between her eyes. "Rosalie, you're sort of the modern incarnation of Helen of Troy, who wouldn't want you? Besides, you have this." I pick up her left hand where the engagement ring sits.

Very sparkly.

Rosalie looks at me for a solid minute, and then she picks up the rest of her glass and drains it. When a waiter passes, she's points at our table for another glass.

"You know, Bella, Edward and I met in college because our parents introduced us."

I shake my head. I don't know any of this. I don't even know why I'm here, or why I'm holding her hand, much less. My very nature seems to dub me the comforter of my foe in her distress, no less than in my own.

_What a pathetic little soul I am._

The waiter brings her the third wine glass. She takes a sip and begins, "I was always so fucking sick of people being infatuated with my beauty," she smoothes her hair. "And then I met Edward, and he was the first man I'd ever met whose beauty drew _me_ in—he was hot and he drove an Aston Martin _Vanquish_, so like the fuck I wasn't going to tap that."

She smiles reflectively, but then her gaze drops. "At the end of college, he proposed to me, and I accepted. Our parents were patting themselves on the back, and everyone was sure that it was the 'perfect match.'" Rosalie scowls as she says the last two words.

I try to pat her hand again, but she pulls it back and takes another large gulp of wine.

She continues, "But we agreed to wait. Edward went off to play the venerable Boy Scott and serve in the Peace Corps for two years, and I went to law school in Boston. The setup pleased our parents because they insisted that we needed to see more of the world—and I admit, they were right in some ways. When we both came back, we continued to see each other.

"But the thing is—we had changed. I was a lawyer, and I loved it, and Edward, well… he wasn't the same. Less than two days after he got back, he traded the Vanquish for a fucking Volvo and used the extra money for his music. That was our first real fight. After all, the first time we made love was on the hood of that Vanquish.

"Yet I shouldn't really say it was a fight, because while I screamed and yelled, Edward said nothing. When I couldn't yell anymore, he apologized and said that 'it was something he needed to do.'" She frowns at the memory.

"The back story is that Edward's music went against the plans that his father had for him. That's why he sold the car. He needed the money for his music. Edward spent all of his time on his music during those years, mostly classical crap, but then Carlisle decided that enough was enough. Carlisle threatened to cut Edward out of the family if he didn't "grow up," work at the company, and set a date with me for the wedding."

_He had said: I'm afraid I grew up too fast._

"You see, even though the ring was on my finger—neither of us had said a word about it since we came back. We no longer tinkered on our cars or went to parties with our friends. We just floated along, even as I think we both still nursed the idea that we could find our way back to each other."

She looks down at the table and gives an empty laugh.

"But then there was the night of the Christmas party, and only a few days earlier Edward had promised Carlisle that he would come and work for the company and set a wedding date. I found out about all of this only at the very last minute when Emmett told me, and I wanted to talk to Edward before the party, but we didn't have a chance. Carlisle picked up the microphone and up-and-announced it.

I see a tear pool at the edge of her eye and then begin a trail down her cheek. "And the look on Edward's face when Carlisle made the announcement was just—so—so—"

She pressed her hand over her mouth.

"—it was like I'd _killed_ him. He wouldn't look at me. He left the stage the second Carlisle finished speaking and ran out, and I didn't see him for the rest of the evening."

_Well, Wendy, darling, I seemed to have lost my shadow._

Her cheeks are glistening now, and I'm rubbing reassuring strokes up and down her arm, because well, as much as my life sucks, her life is a black fuck hole, too.

"I got so drunk, Bella. So drunk. And I, I, I…" she drops her head and gasps into her arms, and then she whispers, "I cheated on him."

I stop my stroking and stare down. There's a space in between her arms where I can see the edge of her face, and I peer into it and see her red eyes looking back at me.

"So now you know why I've dragged you here."

I stare at her in shock. She knows about the bookshop? Does she think I'm going to tell Edward? Does she want me to? Or does she want me to leave and put an end to my obvious infatuation with her fiancée? I open my mouth to deny everything, but her eyes aren't focused on me.

"Now you know—I'm in love with Emmett."

_There are fairies that steal away thimbles, but one needs the fairy dust to go to Never-Never-Land._

I kiss her.

Not in a Pookie sort of way, but in an "I'm-your-friend" sort of way.

She looks up at me in confusion.

My heart is beating a mile a minute, and I suddenly feel quite sober. The question jumps out.

"And why are you still with Edward if you love Emmett?"

She looks down. "After the night of the engagement party, I planned to tell Edward what happened. I had even decided to call off the wedding, but then the next day Edward was on my doorstep, and he just looked—I don't know—_ravaged_, and I felt so guilty that—I mean, I had just cheated on him—and with his brother no less—that I couldn't end us. So I told Emmett 'no.'"

"Emmett loves you."

It _is_ sort of obvious now that I say it aloud.

"Uh, Bella, Emmett eye-fucks you during meetings."

"Emmett is like a brother to me—a demented and juvenile one—but honestly, I think he's been trying to make you jealous. And well… maybe figure out certain things."

"You don't like him?"

Actually, I have seduction dreams about your fiancée instead.

"No," I say finally.

She nods, but she still looks troubled.

"Rose, how would you feel if Edward was with someone else?"

_You shouldn't give up on my brother. Things aren't always what they seem. Just don't let it go._

She looks up at me with huge eyes.

"You think he's been fucking around on me?" There's a tremble of outrage in her voice.

"No!" I gasp, "I just meant what if he liked someone else…"

"He's hasn't been fucking around behind my back?" she clarifies.

_I have an obligation._

"No."

"Well, then, that would be fine. I fucked his brother after all, and I'd like to pursue that again without unnecessarily hurting Edward or getting hell from our parents."

I realize that Rosalie is a very straight forward sort of person.

I take a deep breath.

"Rose, what would you say if I told you that the reason Emmett has been following me is because he knows that I'm, well, I guess you could say… I'm in love with Edward?"

Rose cocks her head to the side, and her icy blue eyes are picking the truth out of mine.

"You met him before the holiday party, didn't you?"

I nod slowly.

She nods as well, and I'm thankful to see that she looks relieved more than anything.

She looks up at me after a minute, and I notice that she's twirling her engagement ring around the top of her finger.

"I don't play games," she says.

"Neither do I," I reassure her.

She stares me in the eyes. "All of this… you're not fucking with me, are you, Bella?"

"I'm far too fucking _drunk_ to think _anything_ but the _truth_."

She laughs, and it's like the ice shell has cracked and fallen away.

"I'm sorry I was always such a bitch to you," she murmurs.

She tenderly slides her ring-free hand over mine.

I smile up at her.

And then I raise my glass in the air as a silent toast.

She laughs again.

She gives me a foolish, drunken smile and raises her wine glass, too.

We clink.

x-x-x

x-x-x

x-x-x

* * *

And now all that remains is...

for you to leave me a nice review, right?


	7. Chx7

_Disclaimer:_ Twilight belongs to _the_ Stephenie Meyer.

* * *

- x-x-x-

There is no remedy for love but to love more.

—Henry David Thoreau

- x- | -x-

-x-

When I wake up the next morning, I'm sprawled in furry whiteness. The furry haze is a rug.

When I raise my head to take in my surroundings, I see that Rose and I are sprawled on what I'm pretty sure is her living room floor, still in our work clothes. The coffee table is loaded with magazines, empty Haagen Daz pints, an empty bottle of Grey Goose _L'Orange_, half-sliced lemons alongside orange skins, and uncapped bottles of magenta and violet nail polish. The TV is still flashing the DVD start screen for some BBC production. The flashing is making my eyes water.

Rose and I both have pretty fabulous hangovers.

"Rose?" I groan, flipping onto my back.

She grunts, lifting her head, looking around, and then laying it back down.

"Water?" I rasp.

She raises her hand and points in the direction of the kitchen.

I come back with two glasses of water. I set one on the small table next to Rosalie, and I slide onto the couch and begin sipping mine.

"Are we going into work?" I ask.

I am answered by another grunt.

"Roger that, sister—over and out," I declare, even as my voice crackles like it has bad radio reception.

I find my purse buried beneath a pile of chocolate wrappers and old Cosmos. It sort of smells funny—like apple. I fish out my phone and dial the buttons for my secretary's line. I leave a message for Angela—and ask her to call Rose's secretary, too.

When I set down the phone, I see that Rose is sitting up. She's looking around at the mess that surrounds us. She smoothes her hair and picks up the glass of water.

"I think I might go in the office later today."

I look over at her. "You have to turn in that vulture presentation or whatever it is."

She nods. "Yes, there's the final draft of the Volturi contract, and well," she gives me a significant look, "there's also that item of business we talked about last night."

I hold up the glass of water.

She holds up hers.

I catch a taxi home.

x- x-|-x-x

It is 5:50 PM, already night in New York City, and I'm in my office, and it's dark. I consider turning on my desk lamp, but I decide not to because I'm enjoying sitting in the almost black. The darkness of my office is broken up by the glow of the city from outside my window. The blue and white lights from the surrounding skyscrapers saturate the room, creating shadows that seem to fizzle at the edges. A sliver of the moon is even visible above the skyline.

I'm smiling because I caught the office gossip from Rose's secretary before she ran out the door for the evening.

Jessica had eagerly spilled, "Rosalie smashed Emmett Cullen against the wall in his office. She pinned him there, and she kissed him—no, more like she _jumped_ him!" she exclaimed, but then she stopped, looking down the hallway to see if anyone was listening in. "So, yeah, she jumped him—publicly—door open and everything."

She had paused for dramatic effect and then continued in a lower voice, "And what was even crazier is that she did it right in front of Edward—her _fiancée_—with his brother no less—and Edward just laughed. He _laughed_."

So, now I am here, alone in my office in the dark and smiling—because Rosalie has Emmett—and Edward was okay with it—and—

I hear my door creak.

The energy in the room changes, and I can feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.

And then I hear the door close and click shut.

I hear the footfalls as he approaches.

Right…left…right…left…right.

I am still looking up at the night sky out the square window, but now it's like I'm peering through a kaleidoscope with a shifting pattern of black and blue and white.

The footsteps stop, and there is the faintest of sounds behind me as I hear the quiet ruffle of fabric rubbing against fabric.

And then I feel my hair being pushed forward over my shoulder and arms being wrapped along my arms, and hot breath and soft lips on my neck. The lips press, and they kiss.

I'm almost unable to breathe, and when I do, the breaths are choking out like sobs.

I feel fingers slide under my chin, and then my face is being gently lifted upwards.

And all I see are green eyes.

They're staring into mine

But then they're staring at my mouth.

The kiss is slow but instantly deep, and I'm smiling as I kiss him, and I can see that edges of his mouth are upturned, too. And it's like I want to sing a tune and herald this moment but my voice sucks something awful, so I make up for it by intensifying the kiss, clutching his arms tighter around me.

He pulls his lips from mine, and he has his hands on my face, and he's trailing the pads of his fingers across the planes, angles, and curves, deciphering every last bit.

All I can do is look into his eyes.

"Bella, Bella, Bella," he sings, and the way he says it, it's like my name is an actual bell ringing.

I open my mouth to respond, but then he runs his fingers along the inner creases of my lips. My mouth opens wide, and then he hooks his thumb under my front teeth, and I feel his nail against my teeth as pulls my mouth back to his.

And then our lips are one again, and I'm warm and cold and beaten and flying.

I'm pressing his chest as hard against me as I can, but I realize I still want more. Because I have dreams to fulfill, dreams that have ravaged my psyche every night since the afternoon that I met him. I have dreamed, but the dreams have only been the stuff of nightmares—horrid jokes that dangled carrots like happiness before swiping them away at the last second.

So, it's like I can finally hit the play button on a missing reality.

I slide my hands out of his hair and down his neck, and pull out the knot on his deep blue tie. He urges me on with his eyes, and he moves us and sets me on one of the chairs in front of my desk. He kneels down between my legs. And his hands push mine away and unbutton the top button of my shirt. It opens, and then Edward edges up to the newly bared spot of skin, and he kisses it and then he licks it, and then he pulls back.

So, I do the same for him. I undo the button, kiss, lick, and wait.

He opens the button, kisses, licks, and waits for me.

And we go back and forth.

Open. Kiss. Lick.

He nips at the tiny satin bow between my bra cups.

Open. Kiss. Lick.

Open. Kiss. Lick.

Near the end, we're barely able to keep it going. His lips are trembling and his eyes are wide and vivid, and while I'm working on the next button, his hands grip my knees and knead more and more urgently. He finishes my shirt first because he is taller and longer so his shirt still has more buttons. I almost rip out his bottom two, but he takes over, pressing me back into the chair and plucking the final buttons out.

He grabs the front flaps of my shirt and pulls them apart, sliding the shirt sleeves down my arms, and then I do the same for him, and I'm gasping because when he holds his arms up so I can pull the shirt up, I see the blue and white flickers dancing across the planes of his chest. He looks unearthly and sublime and rather like an angel.

I lean up to kiss him, but Edward clutches my face, "Bella, there's so much I need to explain."

"No, Edward, really. Rose and I talked—I understand—"

But he cuts me off with a swift peck and then continues in a rush of words, "I was an ignorant, young fool when I first met Rose," he explains, "the consequence of having everything handed to me and never questioning it. She appeared everything that I had come to expect. I had seen so little of the world that I could make no comparisons and see no defects."

"Eh, maybe because she doesn't have any?" I offer, not stopping myself from running my hands up and down his biceps.

He laughs, and it's so silly, it's boy-like. "I'm glad I can finally laugh with you. I couldn't laugh before—no matter how funny you were. I felt like I was locked outside the nursery window."

"Not the nursery window, Peter," I tease, but then I grow more serious, and I tell him, "I always kept it open."

He kisses my forehead, and it's the same passionate kiss that caused so much longing before, but now it just feels like coming home.

"Bella, you are my perfect. I have dreamed about blushing cheeks and chocolate eyes since the day I met you. Seeing you at work was always the highlight and misery of my day."

I run my fingers over his eye lids, and he closes them in response. "These green eyes," I whisper.

"Bella, I tried to find you that night, I mean, the night of the Christmas Party."

"You didn't find me, well not until..." I trail off and suppress a shudder because the memory starts to creep back in.

Edward bends down, and his eyes are less than an inch from my own.

"I have you now, is that enough?"

"Yes."

"I'm in love with you, is that enough?"

And I smile and nod, and then I mouth the same words back to him.

And then Edward grabs me and pulls me tightly to him, and we're there, here, everywhere, together. His bare flesh is against my bare flesh, and there's something about skin and nerves and uneven heat that's seamless and whole.

But then he starts kissing down my neck, and skin against skin is almost too much—and then it is, so I pull back and start attacking the buckle and buttons on his pants. He lets me go, but all the while his hands are moving up and down the sides of my waist and the edges of his fingers are intermittently sneaking underneath the fabric of my bra.

And then he's unbuttoned, so he stands and shrugs out his pants. Then I'm pushing out of mine and his hands are unclasping my bra. Edward pushes me back against my desk and lays me back with one hand under my lower back and the other cradling my head. He has full access to my breasts and he's running his tongue through the valley, up the crest, and nipping softly at the summits, and I'm no longer able to keep quiet, so I'm moaning and hissing at the unexpected nips and licks.

He sets me down on the desk, and its cold and hard, but Edward's fingers hook along the outer straps of my underwear, and I raise my lower half, so he slides them down, and his boxers come off, and then he leans over me, and I can feel him pressed against my stomach, and his lips are against mine and his eyes are the ocean and my body is on fire, and I fucking want—no, _need_—to dive in to the abyss, so I move to the edge of the desk so he can enter me.

But he pulls away.

And then he sits on the floor.

And then he pulls on my ankles, so I move forward, but then he pushes on the backs of my calves.

I lose my balance and fall forward.

Edward's hands catch my waist.

"I caught you," he breathes, his eyes wide, bright, brilliant.

"You did."

"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to catch you," he rasps desperately.

"I fall a lot," I murmur.

"I _know_. You nearly gave me a heart attack every time," he confesses.

Edward pulls me forward, and I'm kneeling above him.

"Well, why didn't you ever catch me?" I try to tease, but my voice breaks upon itself.

"I wouldn't have been able to let you go," he says in a strained voice, and it's like he's admitted to a sin.

I melt into buttery drool, because I've already forgiven him, and I know just as well that he's forgiven me.

We kiss, and it's wonderful, and then he angles my hips, and then I lower down.

And he's staring into my eyes and his lips are parted as his tip presses at my entrance.

And then his hands are gripping my hips even more firmly, and I'm being lowered.

And then he's inside of me, and I gasp his name and then I cry.

But we're still staring at each other, so he sees the tears as they form, and then he's kissing them away.

And he's moving me up and pushing me back down and we're kissing and touching and I'm moaning and his breath is coming in pants. I'm completely focused on drinking in his breath and not closing my eyes, because I'm not ready to stop looking.

But then our legs are getting too sweaty, and we're starting to stick, which almost makes me laugh, so we lift up and roll over, and then he's on top of me, and I'm bearing a portion of his weight, and my hands are combing through his silky mop of hair.

When I realize that I'm getting close, I grab tightly against his back, as my heels push into his ass, and he starts moving faster and harder, and this time, the waves start slowly, and my head falls back and my eyes squeeze shut because of the concentration of pressure in between my legs. I'm not looking at him for the first time, and the final rush hits, and I'm moaning loudly, so he kisses my forehead, and I suck on his chin until I'm back to the plateau.

My breathing is slowing, but his is still tense and hard, so I nod and urge him with my eyes, because he's been focusing on me, and I want him to come, too.

He releases his restraint, plunging in and out me, and then he's surrendered, and his mouth snaps shut and his jaw tenses but his eyes stay open, and I kiss them both when he lets out a final groaned breath.

We stay like that for several minutes, lying in a tangled mess on my office floor, and he's still inside of me, even though he's softened.

But I refuse to let him move away.

We just kiss and look, because we're inside one another, and it feels _right_.

I feel it sometime later when he hardens again, and I beam up at him, and he smiles down at me.

"This is permanent," he says, stroking my hair.

I kiss him, because I don't know what to say.

He lifts up slightly, even as he keeps our position, and his hand falls down to my belly and begins to stroke it.

"Are you on anything?"

"Like the pill?" I ask.

He nods.

I nod back.

"Please, stop taking it."

I cock an eyebrow at him. "Are you planning on knocking me up?" I tease.

He lowers back down and thrusts even deeper into me.

"That's exactly what I'm planning on doing."

He increases his pace.

I'm whimpering and whining, because I'm actually trying to think, and he's intentionally making it difficult.

"Oh, and if I pop out a kid, are you planning on marrying me, too?" I chide.

"Is tomorrow okay?"

I gasp up at him because he said it like a proposal.

He sees my face and laughs, and it's so carefree and peaceful, and then he kisses me.

"I told you, Bella, Bella, my Bella. This is permanent."

And then he pounds deeper, and I find myself nodding yes, and I'm crying again.

But I don't care.

Because I am happy.

We are happy.

- x-x-x-

Happiness.

It's green eyes.

And bronze hair.

It's when everything falls into place.

It's when the epiphany smacks you on the head but instead of fainting, you finally wake up.

And I have to laugh because that's a very new experience for me.

Not fainting, I mean.

-x-x-

Happiness.

It's when the stars fucking realign.

And you're up there, too, flying up and away, straight forward to the brightest star.

Pulled up, up, and away by happy, happy, happy thoughts.

-x-

-x-

.

* * *

(...)

So, yay!

*Pastiche does a happy dance*

This is my first completed story, and JamesxBella was even my first lemon (although I've written enough limes to make several buckets of margaritas), and now I need you-all's feedback...

Update: the companion story to this one is _Price of Permanence_ on my profile. It's this same story but from Edward's POV... and a much more in-depth explanation of Emmett as well.


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